Nepenthe
by xxfatal
Summary: Yuffentine. See you in the next life. 50alternates. 9: He is expected in Nibelheim in three days time. She does not agree.
1. pirate

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _FFVII_.

_**Nepenthe.**_

* * *

><p><em>theme o16. pirate<em>

* * *

><p>She had the audacity to grin through the lashings. Blood ran freely down her back, staining the immaculate deck of the ship. She hadn't uttered a sound since the punishment began. She simply knelt on her knees, her wrists bound behind her as the whip came down upon her back.<p>

"Enough."

"But Captain—"

"I said," repeated Vincent, "that is _enough_."

The lashings stopped. Silence curled like a slit-eyed cat on the deck of his ship. She did not crumple, made not a sound; the curve of her back betrayed uneasy relief. Vincent's boots resounded against the planks until he reached the edge of the scarlet lake that encircled her wretched form. She ignored him. Vincent eyed the rivulets distastefully; his men had truly gone too far.

"This is your last warning, thief," began Vincent, "or must I remind you that the plundering of royal naval ships is punishable by death?" His venture was met with no response. His eyes narrowed. "Shall we make a deal, then?" he said in hopes greed would move her tongue. "The names of your conspirators, and in exchange, an appeal for a more lenient sentence."

She tossed the limp, dark bangs out of her face. "I'm not a rat. You're better off whipping me until I die," she spat, her eyes fever-bright.

Vincent pulled her roughly to her feet by the ropes on her wrist. Her tiny body buckled, but she gritted her teeth and bore through the pain. "Bring the doctor to my cabin," he ordered. "She will die at this rate."

The stubborn pirate struggled against him, but the pain had begun to create dots of black in her vision. Soon, she passed into the realm of unconsciousness and could struggle no more.

She came to inside large, wooden cabin. The captain, a man dressed in royal red, with matching eyes, watched her noiselessly as she fought to regain focus. She mustered a feeble glare at him.

"It would be of no use to me if you perished before we were able to apprehend your brethren," he explained, ignoring her venomous gaze.

She blinked tiredly and turned her head, with great effort, toward the wall. "You will get nothing from me," she rasped. He brought a wet towel to her forehead. She slapped it away with a strength she no longer possessed and dropped powerlessly back onto the sweat-soaked pallet. "Kindness will get you nowhere, Captain," she said disdainfully.

"Your crew will return for you."

"No."

"You pretend ignorance," he said in measured, careful tones. She pressed her dry, cracked lips together, the only sign of weakness she had shown him since her apprehension. "Your clever contrivance ensured the safe retreat of your own ship, at the expense of your own life—admirable. But how long did you expect to deceive me?"

She balled her fists, the resolution in her stormy eyes breeding the first pinpricks of panic. Vincent took the shredded remains of her linen shirt and pulled down on her blistered, red shoulder. A black four-pointed star was etched in ink onto her skin.

"You do yourself a great dishonor, Captain Kisaragi."

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** AU Yuffentine? How could I resist? Just something fun I started to keep me from going insane these past few months of school. Expect brief, other-worldly shenanigans and spontaneous updates. I'd love to know what you think. Thank you for reading!


	2. greece

**Disclaimer:** I do not own_ FFVII_.

**_Nepenthe._**

* * *

><p><em>theme oo2. greece<em>

* * *

><p>The massacred remains of the monstrous beast that had taken the life of his father and his wife were spread like blood-red flowers at his feet. But venom coursed through his veins, and soon, he, too, would perish. His sword clattered mutely to the marble floor, and he sank slowly to his knees. The pillars grew grey, and the wind roared loudly in his ears even as his senses failed. Tears leapt unbidden to his eyes. He could still see his loved ones, their screaming faces, in his mind's eye. The agony was unbearable. But he would join them soon. A great, white light enveloped him, and the pain seeped away from his bones. He knew nothing more.<p>

His eyes snapped open.

"Your life has been spared, hero, by order of the gods." A dark-haired god with golden sandals sat before him, on the pedestal of the temple where he had been granted the strength to slay the beast. Vincent felt despair. He had not wanted this. He had wanted to see her again, his wife.

"No, this cannot be."

"You would challenge the mandate of the gods?" boomed the fleet-footed god, though his voice possessed little rage. A smile danced upon his lips, cunning like a fox's. "Your fate cannot be changed, mortal. It was not your time. You should be grateful. Not all heroes survive their quest."

"I did not want this."

"But it has already been given to you, like the air you breathe; you cannot give it back."

Vincent saw himself reflected in the shimmering gold that graced the god's feet. He was heavily scarred, haggard, but whole. He genuflected before the celestial being. "If you must give life, give it to someone else, I beg of you."

"What an exemplary request," announced Hermes, the messenger of the gods. "But it cannot be done, I am afraid."

"Please."

The god eyed him steadily. "Then, I have a proposal for you, mortal. If you accept, you may yet find your love greater than she was before." He grinned ironically. "I have lost something of mine. The key is hidden away in the shadows of Hades, where I cannot tread. I can tell you the way to the River Styx, grant you the power to save a single soul from its depths, and return, both unharmed."

Vincent could scarcely believe the god's words. "You would have me find your key, and bring it to you."

"Yes, and in exchange, you would have your chance to bring a life out of the afterlife."

"I accept," said Vincent, invigorated by the god's generosity. "What is this key? I will find it even if I must search every plain of the underworld for it."

"Silly mortal, you need not go that far. You will find it, be assured of that." Hermes tossed him a golden coin. "Your fare across the River. When you have crossed, step to the bank, where none can see you, and ask the River to speak to your love. Her soul will appear beneath the surface. You only need to grab a hold of it, but be certain it is hers, for the River enjoys her trickery."

"But should I not seek your key before I—"

"Righteous mortal!" exclaimed Hermes amusedly. "But that will not be necessary. She will know what I seek. Take her and cross with her back to the realm of the living. Be quick; Hades does not like to be cheated of his denizens. He will pursue you. Once you have returned, your will be freed from our agreement. Does this suit you?"

Vincent bowed his head. "Yes. Yes, thank you. I am indebted to you."

But striking a deal with the god of thieves was, perhaps, the greatest folly he had ever known.

* * *

><p>"Hail, Charon!" cried Vincent. The spectral ferryman of the dead stopped his ghastly vessel at the end where Vincent stood, coin held betwixt his fingers like a ward from evil. His face was steeped in grey, impenetrable smoke, but a greedy grin still formed on his horrible aspect. An emaciated hand of a child emerged from his cloak, palm skyward to receive the tribute. Vincent gave him the coin and was allowed to step into his boat. It creaked ominously as he pushed off.<p>

White trails like liquid candle wax circled like curious vultures as the boat crossed the River Styx. Vincent gazed intently, searching for the soul of his beloved, but he would not be tempted to step off prematurely. The whorls sometimes took forms: weeping maidens, bent old crones, even children. Charon's hiss signaled the end their voyage together. He swept a cloaked arm at the bank, as if presenting him a grand stage. Vincent stepped off, careful to avoid the mass of dead that sought the gates of the underworld. He did as Hermes instructed, skirting the endless River until he could see none. He knew himself to be deep in the underworld by the lack of sunlight and the intoxicating scent of forgetfulness that rose from the River Lethe.

He bent at the River and whispered to the water. "I wish to speak to my love." The River rippled, as if it were boiling from the timber of his voice. Suddenly, the departed souls of those he knew shone brightly against the water's surface. His mentor, Veld, who perished along with the burning of his home. His mother, who had not survived his birth. But at long last, he saw her, drifting quietly, her robes floating like a shroud. She smiled, happy to see him, but then shook her head. "No, Vincent," she murmured to him. Her voice was faded, tired. He realized it sounded like the voice of the dead.

"Lucrecia, I have come to take you home."

"Did not the gods tell you my time has ended?" she asked him miserably.

"But I can save you." He produced a silver net from his satchel.

"No, Vincent!" she cried. He plunged the net into the River, and the waters began to churn violently. Vincent ignored the howling of the souls that sought rebirth, for all the souls began to flock to the enchanted net. He strained his eyes against the searing heat of the waters. He caught the flutter of her robes. He pulled back on the net viciously. The entire River seemed to scream against him. Her soul ripped free. The River went still, beaten.

Stunned and disoriented, he could only lie back on the rocks and collect his breath. He clenched the net tightly in his right fist. He could feel the soul begin to restores its human form.

"You great, ignorant FOOL!"

Vincent startled, nearly releasing the net. A young woman with short black hair and burning, brown eyes glared at him. She gasped on her hands and knees, a dress of silver and white flowing past her delicate curves. The substance began to return to her body, and she lost the pale transparency of the dead, yet she was not alive.

She was not his wife.

Vincent tore back to the River, but all was still. He did not need words to know that he had wasted the god's gift. He had taken the wrong soul, a soul that could not lead him to the key. He had failed, again.

He felt his face yanked back, and he was met with eyes that burned with more life than he had ever glimpsed in a woman. "Who do think you are? Taking me from the River Styx?" she demanded. "You cretin!"

He let himself sit back. All the fight had been sapped from him. "You were not the soul I wanted."

She shook the net in his hand, as if she believed he had never truly seen it before. "Have you no eyes? This net was designed to reclaim _me_ from the afterlife! It could take no other! How did you even call upon me? What name did you induce?"

Vincent shook his head weakly. "I do not understand. I called for my wife. "He brought his hands to his face in defeat.

"What are you doing? Hades has called the undead to come after us! We must escape from this place immediately!"

"I cannot leave until I have found Hermes' key."

At the name, she what little color had returned to her face disappeared. "That unholy, relentless bastard!" she spat. "He sent you?"

"You sully the name of our gods," protested Vincent.

"And you have resurrected the greatest thief in all the land after she had made the finest escape in all of history!" she shouted furiously.

"You were deceased."

"For good reason." She shot her to feet, ripping long stretches of her gown to reveal a pair of slim, lithe legs: a sprinter's legs.

"It is futile. I have no coins with which to leave this place, and no key to hail Hermes to our aid."

"The last thing I desire is the evocation of that conniving god," she informed him pointedly. She spat something into her hand. Two gold coins shimmered in her palm. "Unlike yourself, I do not wander willingly into the Underworld without a contingency plan."

"Where—"

"I died with them."

Every word she spoke confused him further. She had died, as if death had been her refuge, as if—

"The god of thieves was bested by me. I fled into the arms of the River Styx so that he could never find my treasure. But it appears that he is as persistent as I am clever."

Vincent gazed at her in disbelief. "You are the key." Vincent felt the hot, iron brand of deception like he had felt the venom in his veins "He planned this."

"He certainly did, you love-struck fool."

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** It certainly started out harmlessly enough, but when spunky Yuffie made her appearance, you can bet things spiraled out of control for me. That said, I do apologize for any perceived OOCness in their AU counterparts. Vincent can never get a break, in any universe, I'm afraid.

Any feedback is greatly appreciated. Thank you for reading!


	3. conquest

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _FFVII_.

**_Nepenthe._**

* * *

><p><em>theme o40. conquest<em>

* * *

><p>They came at dawn, in their silver helmets, searching for gold. They emerged from the jungle to an enclosure of fearsome warriors, who held them all at spear-point. Vincent's soldiers froze in terror, their firearms rendered useless by Vincent's explicit command not to engage the opposition. It was crucial to avoid altercations with the indigenous people; he knew they would ultimately prove to be valuable allies in their quest. Vincent stood forward, unarmed, with the translator, but the warriors would not listen. Their dark eyes narrowed beneath their painted faces, each of their spears poised like the agitated tail of a scorpion. The translator shook his head fearfully. They were not to speak.<p>

Half of the warriors gathered in the rear, ordering them to begin marching. Vincent's men were certain they were being led to their deaths. They were made to walk for hours. When the sun slipped beneath the mountains, they stumbled blindly in the dark; the warriors glided like wraiths through the brush, as if they needed neither light nor sound to find their way. A scream shattered the silence.

Vincent snapped his head back to find one of his men on his knees, praying in rapid, desperate Spanish. Two warriors quickly converged on the terrified solider. "If you do not get up, they will slay you," Vincent told him.

"They are bringing us to the devil," he whimpered. "Look, into the distance—fires as bright as the devil's eyes!"

"Get up," said Vincent, his voice cold and angry, "or I will slay you myself. Rise now, or you will bring death to us all."

The soldier got shakily to his feet, knowing the captain's threats were as real as the weapons that surrounded them. They continued on. None dared speak a word. The eerie red glow against the black night sky grew closer, and what it illuminated rendered them breathless.

Marvelous stone temples rose from the slopes of the mountain. Basins of fire, like torches, lit the way down the enormous central boulevard of the capital. Its citizens, dressed in colorful woven patterns unlike those seen in Spain, strode with baskets beneath their arms or atop their heads, full of crop fresh from the day's labor. Their homes sported strange trapezoidal entrances, and were composed entirely of stone. They ascended to the north-most point of the great city, up the steps of the palace and were led into a chamber that Vincent presumed to be their emperor's receiving room. His men were corralled in the back of the chamber by all of the warriors but one. This warrior pulled Vincent aside; his protests to take the translator with him were ignored.

He alone left the antechamber, weaponless and bound, but collected. He would persuade their emperor that he meant no harm, that they only sought gold to appease their king. Vincent would assure them that—

"Welcome, barbarian, to my palace."

Before he could locate the owner of the voice, he was forced to his knees, but an image remained in his mind. He was certain the emperor's throne was plated in solid gold. His king would reward them handsomely for this discovery. He only had to negotiate some type of trade. He looked up, only to be met with the penetrating, dark eyes of a woman, who examined him from the seat of the throne. She was dressed a gown marked with vivid dyes, a jeweled belt, and a feathered headdress. Her arms, fingers, and ankles were adorned in golden accessories.

"Princess," acknowledged Vincent, awestruck, and realizing a moment too late that he had made a mistake.

"Queen," she corrected him. Her accent was thick, but not entirely unintelligible. "The head guardsman tells me that you have been most cooperative. Do not think we have not encountered your kind before. Your predecessors were vulgar, resistant to our ways. We could kill you, but we would like to know what it is you want from us."

"Only your pardon, and your hospitality," began Vincent, choosing to stray on the safe side. If he appeared greedy, she would have him beheaded, or worse. "We humble ourselves before you. We know that you have much to teach us."

He heard her sandaled footsteps descend the throne. She took him boldly by the chin, and dared him to look into her eyes. She was not a particularly stunning queen. Her features were too soft, too young; Vincent wondered at the circumstances that had brought her this regency. But her eyes, full of power and passion, captured him. "You are lying to me, barbarian," she said, without anger. "You want our gold."

Vincent blinked, but did not avert his eyes. "Yes."

The corner of her lips twitched. "Are you considered beautiful where you are from, barbarian?" Vincent did not have words for her question. "Too pale, your face too long—your eyes are like a demon's." Vincent dropped his eyes. She ran her thumb across the bridge of his nose to his eyelid. "Eyelashes like a woman." She smiled. Vincent knew it to be a smirk, but held his tongue. "You amuse me."

"Whatever you desire from us, you may have. I only wish for the lives of my men, and the patience of your ear."

She cocked her head to the side. "More noble than the one before you. Consider your wish granted." She dropped her hand away from his face, and returned to the throne. She waved a hand, gesturing to her guardsmen and speaking in a rough, foreign language. "As for what I desire," she began again in Spanish, turning her attention to him, "I will have you."

Vincent felt the ropes fall away from his wrists. A guard yanked him to his feet and he stumbled forward, confused. A blade went to this neck. His blood ran to ice, and he stared at her uncomprehendingly. "You will take my life for theirs?"

She laughed. It was a young, bright laughter that rang and twinkled against the ceiling. She smiled again, but it appeared far more predatory. Vincent could see now how this young woman could rule a kingdom. She was made for autocracy: sly, intelligent, and fearless. "You asked for my patience. I am not a patient woman. My favor is not earned; it is bought. Tell me, barbarian, what can you sell to me? If your answer appeals to me, I will spare you life."

"I—I cannot," stammered Vincent, his mind paralyzed.

She frowned, her mercurial eyes losing their interest. The blade sank deeper against his skin, drawing a line of blood. She spoke to the guard that held him, her tone bored, resigned.

"You asked if I was beautiful where I am from," Vincent said quickly, and he saw her eyebrows lift in curiosity. She held her palm up, signaling the guard to stop. "I am not." Her smile returned. He knew then that she had played him, that she had never intended to kill him. "But you have no need of beauty; it is all around you. What you require is amusement. That is the answer. You wish that I would amuse you."

He watched her sit up from the throne, and as she did so, she brought with her a ceremonial dagger that he wagered was worth more than his coffers could hold. Vincent felt the loud, thundering beats of his heart like horse hooves against rain-torn fields. He had miscalculated. In the end, bloodshed pleased her more. The guard behind him lowered his own blade as the queen approached. Vince was cuffed by the neck, so that he could neither bend nor struggle.

"You were wrong," sang the queen, drawing the dagger point to the dip where his collarbones met. "You," she murmured on her tip-toes, pressing her lithe, supple body against his, "are very beautiful." The dagger ripped down his torso. Vincent stopped breathing. His tunic fell away. She grinned, running her hand along his naked chest. She dropped back to her feet, and pressed her lips against the space above his still-beating heart.

"Good answer."

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** I should be sleeping. But since I don't plan to update much (at all) in these next two weeks (exams), I thought I'd throw this out there. It's a little on the twisted side, but I'd be lying if I said I didn't enjoy writing Queen!Yuffie, Conquistador!Vincent, and silent ninja-like lackeys. Based loosely on the Inca culture.

Any feedback is, as always, greatly appreciated. Thank you for reading!


	4. museum

**Disclaimer:** I do not own_ FFVII_.

**_Nepenthe._**

* * *

><p><em>theme o28. museum<em>

* * *

><p>He was working late again. Yuffie straightened at her desk facing the museum lobby as he approached. "Mr. Valentine," she greeted him brightly. She restrained herself from giving him a dorky, little wave, as she had her first few nights on the job those months ago.<p>

The first time, she had actually been holding her gun—brandishing it _so stupidly_ at him. She remembered how he had recoiled and nearly yelled for security. He had given her an ironic smile when she apologized and introduced herself as the new night-guard on duty. "Good luck with that," he had said.

"Miss Kisaragi," responded the head curator politely with a nod as he passed on his way into the hall of main offices, files tucked beneath his arm.

"Burning the midnight oil?" she mustered when he slipped out his key card.

Another grim and serious smile. "Paperwork. As you know, we are acquiring a new exhibit from the National Cairo Museum in May."

"Another mummy?" she asked wryly.

"Several," he replied. His door clicked open, signaling the end of their short burst of conversation. With another controlled curve of the lips that one could barely call a smile, he entered his office and shut the door behind him.

Yuffie sagged back into her cushioned seat, staring up at the enormous glass ceiling. Even the shadows looked blacker tonight. With a sigh, she unzipped her takeaway pouch and unwrapped her favorite late-shift snack: peanut butter and celery. It made an ungodly racket as she ate it, but she preferred it on nights such as these. As she crunched, she examined the feed on the camera displays. Perimeter guards patrolled the museum's outer entrances. Normally, Barrett would have been on duty with her, but he had taken the entire day off to see his daughter Marlene's piano recital. He may have been over six feet of solid muscle, but inside, he was all softie.

Yuffie licked the peanut butter off her fingers and propped her head on her elbow, her eyes tailing Cloud Strife's patrol route outside. He seemed almost jittery. In fact, his arms were swinging rather mechanically from side to side as he rounded one of the corners. Yuffie leaned forward, eyebrows drawn together. Suddenly, it made sense. Tifa Lockheart, the prettiest lady in the industry, crossed paths with him. Tifa made their hideous uniforms look like runway wear. Tifa stopped to chat with him briefly and Cloud's agitation skyrocketed. Yuffie almost wanted to turn away at the train wreck of a scene; Yuffie didn't doubt for a second that Strife was making a total fool of himself. He was one of the most awkward, soft-spoken guards she'd ever met—and she'd met a great deal of them over the course of her life. "Just kiss her already, you big goofball!" she blurted, exasperated.

"Pardon?"

Yuffie swiveled in her chair, blinking as the door to Mr. Vincent Valentine's office—she secretly called him Vinnie—opened. He stepped out, letting the door shut behind him. He was holding a sealed package that was labeled for the art restoration lab.

"Oh, Vinn—Mr. Valentine!" She leaned awkwardly to one side, so as to conceal the mushy scene straight out of a bad B-movie that was on display on the monitors behind her. "You flew through those papers fast!"

He held up the package. "I nearly forgot to get this processed." Without another word, he crossed the corridor and disappeared down the hall.

Yuffie turned back to the feed, and promptly went slack-jawed at the sight. Cloud Strife, unassuming, small-town boy from the middle of nowhere, had the supermodel of the security world pressed up against the wall of the museum. They were making out furiously, right next to the spot where she usually took her lunch on day shifts. Well, that did it; she was never eating there ever again. "I didn't mean it literally," she muttered to herself.

A flicker on the screen captured her attention. Yuffie's mind went into overdrive. She hadn't been imagining it, then. The shadow from the ceiling earlier. They were being broken into. She pressed the lock-down button beneath the desk. She took out her walkie-talkie, sprinting down the eastern corridor. She knew exactly what the art thief wanted. After all, she'd been one herself. "Code Red, Lover-Boy! We have a situation in the Sengoku exhibit! I need back-up immediately!"

"What?" came back breathlessly through the receiver.

Yuffie tried not to feel annoyed. "You and Tifa secure the perimeter! The police are on their way! Let them know that the intruder came into through the western corner of the roof. Do not, I repeat, do not let the intruder escape!"

"How did—" filtered Tifa's voice weakly through the device.

Yuffie silenced the device as she neared the Sengoku exhibit. She knew the intruder would be there. A shadow flickered in the corner. "Stop! Don't move!" Yuffie roared, cocking her firearm. She lowered it a moment later, stunned. "Mr. _Valentine_?"

"What's going on here?" he responded, expression pinched as he turned away from the statue he had been examining.

Shit. She had hoped he would still be in the art restoration lab. Not here, not in danger. "There's been a break-in, Mr. Valentine. You—"

Yuffie heard the muted, near-undetectable sound of an art thief's breath: controlled, shallow, excited. He was close. She swiftly closed the distance between her and the curator, pulling them down behind the statue. Without a thought, she pressed her fingers over his lips and looked him directly in the eyes, warning him to remain silent. With the other hand, she held up her gun, careful to keep it a good-sized distance from the edge of the statue. She didn't want to the recoil or the gunpowder to damage it. She had applied for a position at this particular museum for the sake of watching over this priceless piece. As a young, impressionable girl, her father had taken her to see this piece in their homeland of Japan. Its sculptor was unknown, and it was entitled "The Princess and Her Guard." She recalled being instantly drawn to the piece.

"Look, Yuffie, how that woman resembles you," her father had chuckled, pointing. Yuffie didn't have many fond memories with her father, but that was one of them. Yuffie hadn't been staring at the woman, but at the tall, foreboding figure of the man that stood by the princess' side, a man that withstood the test of time and only had eyes for her. It was poetic that it was this piece that had started her on the path of grand art theft, and the same piece that, years later, she would abandon that life in order to protect. Yuffie knew it was worth well over its current market asking price, but secretly, if she ever stole it—which she never would, because she was on the straight and narrow now—she would keep it to herself.

A figure emerged from the corridor not a second later, dressed entirely in black, face concealed beneath a ski mask. A satchel was slung over his shoulder. He crossed to the other side of the exhibit, where the princess's necklace rested on a velvet stand, encased in glass. Yuffie and Vincent watched in horror as the thief shattered the glass with his elbow. Yuffie wanted to scream at him. He could scratch the inlaid gemstones with that kind of recklessness! The second he picked it off the stand, holding it up to admire in the dim post-hours museum lighting, she rolled out from behind the statue and aimed the gun at him.

"Put it back, scumbag," she hissed. "Nice and easy, or I'll rip you a new one."

The thief stared at her in disbelief. "That you, White Rose?" came the muffled voice from beneath the heavy fabric.

Yuffie felt her palms go sweaty at the name, her old alias, infamous among museums everywhere. The bastard had just outed her to her own boss. She was going to go to prison. Worse, Vincent Valentine was going to fire her. "I don't know what you're talking about. Drop the necklace and put your hands in the air."

The man lowered the necklace back onto the stand, smiling. "Never thought I'd see you on the other side of the game."

"Who the hell are you?" she barked. "Hands in the air, I said!"

His ice-blue eyes narrowed. "I don't think so." Without warning, he lunged forward and kicked the gun out of her hand. Yuffie cursed as his boot smashed into a brittle juncture on her wrist. He went back for the artifact. Yuffie tackled him to the floor, trying to pin his arm into a lock. But the damage had been done; her wrist couldn't handle the shock and her technique failed. He grabbed her by the collar of her shirt and slammed her into the glass panel that separated her from the primitive Sengoku-era weapons. Yuffie slid to the floor, momentarily disoriented. She saw him whip out a knife. She rolled away just as the metal came clamoring down. She dodged his swipes with practiced ease, throwing herself into a back flip using her good hand to keep her distance.

"Haven't lost it, I see," he commented. "But I don't play fair." He pulled out a pistol and aimed it at her face.

The shot was deafening. Yuffie watched the world move as if through slow motion. The intruder stared, open-mouthed at her, and collapsed to the floor. Blood spilled from the wound in his chest. Vincent Valentine, head curator, stood with gun poised from beside the silhouette of the bronze guard. He seemed unfazed. Yuffie saw the trajectory and knew the shot had been incredibly difficult to take. He could have obliterated a number of artifacts, taking that risk. "You're not the only one with a gun license, Miss Kisaragi," he said.

* * *

><p>The next few hours were a blur. After the threat had been declared neutralized, the police were granted access inside the building. Yuffie and Vincent were taken to the parked ambulance outside for shock treatment after they had given their statements. Cloud and Tifa were taking care of the clean-up.<p>

Yuffie sat pathetically on the entrance stoop, a blanket draped lifelessly over her shoulders. Vincent held out a Styrofoam cup of tasteless, diluted tea, his lips set in a grim line. She was certain he was about to ask her about her history as the White Rose, art thief extraordinaire, best known for her flawless exits and cheeky law enforcement escapes. "You told them, didn't you?"

Vincent took a sip of his tea. "I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about."

"You heard the guy. You saw me." Her voice cracked and she fell silent.

"What I saw was you doing your job, Miss Kisaragi. I knew that I could count on you to be the best in the business. That's why I hired you."

"You _knew_?"

"I guessed."

Yuffie fiddled with the flap of her blanket. "What were you doing there, in the exhibit?"

"Admiring my favorite piece."

"'The Princess and Her Guard'?"

"Yes."

"It's my favorite, too."

"Ah." He gave her an appraising look.

"Mr. Valentine! May I have a word?" Reeve Tuesti, head of their press relations, came striding forward in a dark gray pea-coat and tousled graying hair.

"Mr. Tuesti, one moment. Miss Kisaragi." Yuffie's head shot up. "Can I expect to count on you again?"

"Yes, Mr. Valentine," she replied, her tentative smile spreading into a grin. "Yes, you can."

"Mr. Valentine," repeated Reeve.

He gave her a ghost of a smile. "I suppose this will mean more paperwork."

Yuffie laughed. "Good luck with that."

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Written in a hurry and without much of a double-check. I really have to stop doing this to myself. But the plot bunnies just won't stop! You guys are a lovely, motivating bunch! I promise I'll get back to your reviews at some later time. As always, any feedback is greatly appreciated. Thank you for reading.


	5. castle

**Disclaimer: **I do not own _FFVII_.

_**Nepenthe.**_

* * *

><p><em>theme o23. castle<em>

* * *

><p>The door swung open, shrieking ominously on its rusted hinges. Vincent felt every muscle in his body tense. He saw nothing in the bleak lightlessness of his cell; his body had only grown accustomed to the punishment that awaited him. Would they whip him today or set his skin aflame? It made no difference now. His tormentors simply enjoyed the show. He had long given up screaming.<p>

After a moment of silence, Vincent lifted his head in direction of the door, though he could see nothing. "Well, get on with it then," he said, bitter and weak.

A step. Vincent's hands fisted in their shackles. Another step. Vincent tried to relax his rigid, aching muscles, to no avail; they were wound beneath his skin like a hanger's rope. The steps dropped all pretenses of hesitation and decorum. They came to his ears as a hawk would descend on its prey.

A weight flew against him. The shackles clattered impotently against the stone wall behind him as his body struggled to manifest its alarm. Thin arms, warm and soft, wound around him. A caress met his face. "Vincent," came a quiet voice, wavering between horror, tears, and rage, "Vincent—what have they done to you?"

That voice alone melted days of agony from his bones. "You've come," he said, barely able to contain his relief.

"I spent days looking for an opening, for a chance to slip away." She embraced him tightly, her cheeks wet with treacherous tears. In all his days, he had never seen her cry. She embodied strength like no one on this earth. "Curse my cowardice! Look how you've suffered!"

"Yuffie, you know the perils of coming to see me."

He felt her shift against him, hands swiping furiously at her unwelcome tears. "I've come to free you."

"You've spoken to your father."

Vincent felt his shackles fall away. His arms dropped from the wall like leaden weights. He reached for her in the gloom of his windowless prison, but his arms were too poisoned with strain, and they sank to the cold floor before he could even graze her shadow. Her hands found his face. He leaned forward to meet her lips. She kissed him, deep and hard. Vincent pressed his body against her minikin form, savoring the heat that spilled from her skin like waves of life-suffusing ambrosia. She ripped away from him, panting, arms pulling them both desperately to their feet. "No," she gasped.

Vincent swayed on his legs. He had not been afforded their use since his detention. She pulled him toward the door, but Vincent resisted with a vehemence he did not know he had the strength to feel. "You are not coming with me."

Her breath had gone shallow with struggle. "Vincent."

"No."

"You will die here!" Her remembered her temper, and knew she was implacable. "Please, don't do this to me—don't fight with me, not on this, Vincent. I've already done so much," she told him brokenly, "I've already bargained with what I have to grant you a safe escape. But it must be tonight—and I cannot go with you."

Vincent stood in the cell with her for a long moment, silent. A part of him had known it was foolish to hope. She was a princess. She was in want of nothing, before him. Smart, relentless, and merry, he had been drawn to her against all of his inhibitions. He would have never given her a second glance—he had sworn it—until she began to seek him out, in the hallways to have a harmless chat, or peering curiously into the armory and chiding herself loudly that she'd gotten herself lost yet again and he would have to accompany her back to the castle proper—"_Oh, I insist, Sir Valentine! May I call you Vincent?_ _No? That is perfectly alright, Vincent. I suppose I will simply have to ask you again next time."_

"Yuffie, come with me."

"Not today." She turned.

"Tomorrow."

"Yes. Yes, tomorrow," she said. "Your gun. Take it." She pressed the reassuring weight of his firearm into his hand. His fingers curled over it instinctively; it calmed him like the affectionate shine of her smile. "Sir Strife is waiting by the stables. Go to him. Do not look back, and do not come back for me. Do you understand? I will come to you, I promise."

"You promise." He kissed her again. "Tomorrow."

"Of course, Vincent." She smiled into his lips. "I love you."

But tomorrow never came.

* * *

><p>"Are sins ever forgiven?" Vincent broke away from his reverie abruptly, tearing his gaze from the window of his study. His doe-eyed pupil stared at him from across the table. "Professor Rose?"<p>

"Forgive me, Denzel. I was preoccupied. What was it you asked of me?"

Denzel adjusted himself on the seat, Latin text abandoned like a platter of tasteless bread. "I asked you if sins are ever forgiven?"

Vincent plucked his glasses from the oaken desk and replaced it on the bridge of his nose. His eyesight was not what it once was. "Where did you come across an idea like that, Denzel?"

"The Wutian Analects of War," he replied, pointing to a passage in his translated book. "'A lie—the most seductive sin—follows you beyond the grave. Caution to those that abuse this, the gravest of sins. No victory is greater than one claimed in truth.'" Denzel finished his recitation proudly, seeking approval from his master.

Vincent placed a hand on the boy's shoulder. "I do not know, Denzel."

"Professor?"

"I believe that will be all today. Go home and continue your studies. Send your father my regards."

Denzel blinked, bewildered, at his solemn teacher, wondering if he had accidentally put the man into a mood. He had known the man for a few years, yet he still seemed as mysterious as the day he returned, gaunt and full of despair, with his father, Cloud Strife. He would often gaze out the window, across the water to the island upon which the Castle of Wutai sat. Denzel belted his textbook without further complaint. "Thank you, Professor. Good day, Professor." He bowed and, with as much care as he could muster, shut the door behind him.

Vincent went to the chest hidden behind the bookcase and eased it from its resting place. He took the key that hung around his neck and unlocked it. He unfurled a faded red cloak, his eyes immediately coming to rest upon the uneven stitching that marred the ends of it. A hollow chuckle escaped him. She had never been a weaver. Beneath it, he found his gun. He took it up and placed it in his lap, fingers running nostalgically over the grim metal, over the tiny four-pointed star that had been etched there the night he had been released. It had always been her sign, a secret message shared between the both of them that she would come to him soon.

Vincent regretted that night every moment of his life, the night he had been fooled by her empty promise, the night he could not see into her eyes and detect the pledge for what it was: a plea.

It was foolish to hope. Vincent clasped the gun in his hands and tried hard to quell the familiar sensation, but he never could, not when he saw the mark.

She would come to him. Next time, she would find him again.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** SOUL MATES. It explains everything. Just kidding. I'm not quite sure I even believe in soul mates. I really ought to stop updating until exams are over. _Really._ As always, feedback is greatly appreciated. Thank you for reading.


	6. arabia

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _FFVII_.

**_Nepenthe._**

* * *

><p><em>theme oo1. arabia<em>

* * *

><p>She stood upon a sand dune, eyes squinting against the bright, white sun and the harsh, winter wind of the Taklamakan Desert. Yuffie pulled the hood of her robes over her eyes and began the long and arduous descent down the sabulous slope. It was a precipitous decline; she had taken off her slippers to better control the climb down, but it had little effect. Even with feet as familiar with the desert as her own, she could barely keep herself from plunging headfirst into the sands. At last, she stood at the bottom, a barren landscape as far as the eye could see. She pulled the charm up from where it rested around her neck, her thumb grazing over the golden design. She had spent many a month on the requisitioning of this peculiar trinket. She only hoped that it would work. She drew it to her lips and whispered, "Show me the Crystal Cave."<p>

A shimmering light seemed to rupture from the center of the charm. She felt it pull against her neck. Her hand went reflexively to the chain that held it fast. Without warning, the silent air was hewn by a thunderous roar. The ground beneath her feet quaked as if it were being torn asunder. Petrified, she watched as a black, bottomless pit cracked open beneath her. The fissure swallowed her whole before she had a chance to scream.

Yuffie awoke in a panic, taking a great heave of stale air that caused her to cough. The sound ricocheted through the narrow tunnel in which she found herself. She groaned and rolled over onto her hands and knees, pulling herself to her feet. Her fingertips found the charm still dangling around her neck. She surveyed the passageway. It was dimly lit by glowing crystals that were embedded in the path, in the walls, and in the ceiling. She placed her hand along the wall, to be certain that she would not be lost, and went forward into the muted light.

It did not take her long to find the chamber. Yuffie gasped and ran forward, the hood falling away from her face. The rumors had been true! Riches of unimaginable splendor bedecked the entire chamber from ceiling to floor. Multicolored jewels spilled over the lips of gold-plated chests, dazzling the floor in shards of brilliant color. Her hand reached out for a goblet of rubies before she withdrew it as quickly as a snake into its burrow. Yuffie's eyes searched the chamber for traps, bending low to the floor to discern the tell-tale flicker of a trick line or a false tile. None could be found. Yuffie snatched the goblet up, hesitating only a moment to listen for signs of danger. Nothing. She could not take it all with her at once. She did not know if the charm would work a second time. She produced a bag from her robes and began to take what she believed to be the most strategic spoils: uncut gemstones, diamonds, pouches of foreign coin, and gold talismans. She lined her neck, waist, wrists and ankles with pieces of jewelry befitting a queen, careful to hide them beneath her grubby clothes for the journey home. With her bag filled to the brim, and light enough to carry but not heavy enough to slow her, she turned to make her escape, regretting that this was, perhaps, the last time she would see such unparalleled finery.

A clatter jerked her from her reverie. The passage began to tremble. Yuffie's eyes stared, transfixed in horror, as the foundations began to crumble, before flicking her eyes to the object that had set off the trap. A simple oil lamp, its bronze face tarnished by the years, that she had completely overlooked had fallen off the pedestal as she turned. She cursed, grabbing it by the handle and setting it back on the pedestal, hoping to avert the crisis. The tremors did not cease. Yuffie was thrown against an arrangement of shields and spears, momentarily losing her grip on the bag. Its contents scattered across the floor. Slightly disoriented and desperate, she shoved what she could back into the sack, threw it over her shoulder, and ran for the exit. She kept low as she sprinted through the crystal-lined corridor, taking the steps at the end three at a time as dust and debris came shaking down.

The stone staircase began to crumble under her feet. With a cry, she launched herself at the outline of the fissure. Her fingers slipped and clenched around the edge and she held on for dear life. With a final burst of strength, she pulled herself over the edge, crawled a safe distance from the crack and squeezed her eyes shut as the Crystal Cave sealed itself behind her.

* * *

><p>Yuffie sighed her disappointment. In the chaos, she had taken far less than she had originally hoped. She dropped the pieces, one by one, into the chest that she normally had tucked behind a false panel in the wall. Luckily, the number of accessories she had shimmied onto her person was impressive, even by her standards, and that more than made up for the dismal haul on larger items. She secured the chest back into the wall and pulled the tapestry over it. As she turned, she stubbed her toe on a lump in the bag. Yuffie swore, stumbling back into the nearby chair and glaring at the bag, which she thought she had emptied.<p>

With a swift grab, she upended the bag, and something both familiar and unwelcome dropped from its recesses. The hideous oil lamp that had cost her the rest of the fortune gleamed weakly from its position on the floor. Yuffie frowned at it, plucking it up to get a better view. There had to be a reason it was in the same chamber, with those other valuables far beyond the caliber of a simple lamp. She shook it experimentally next to her ear. Nothing rattled inside. Yuffie pulled open the lid. Other than a stale puff of dust, it revealed nothing inside. Yuffie shoved it aside. What was she doing? It was probably just the leftovers of another's visit into the Crystal Cave. Then again, why had it triggered the trap? Yuffie dragged her thumb along the discolored bronze, rubbing at a tiny etching that seemed to be an inscription.

Suddenly, the lamp erupted into flames. Yuffie bit back a scream as she crashed into the far wall. Her hand went for the water pitcher. She launched it at the inferno a moment too late. In the blink of an eye, the blaze disappeared. A splash could be heard against her stone floor.

Crimson irises gazed at her from the table. Yuffie stilled where she was, the empty pitcher hanging loosely at her side. A creature, in the form of a handsome man, sat where she had placed the lamp. A smokeless fire seemed to writhe around his silhouette. Black hair—blacker than the night in a storm—spilled across his shoulders.

"A curse," she uttered, voice twisted in shock.

His eyes darkened a single shade at the words. "Yes, it is a curse, but it is not yours to bear."

Yuffie shook her head vehemently. She would not allow something as petty as a curse to deprive her of the greatest riches she'd ever stolen. "If you would seek to reclaim what I took, I demand a deal. That is how your kind does it, I presume? You must honor deals."

He did not move from where he sat. He did not even blink. "My kind?" He eyed the lamp with something that Yuffie recognized as detestation. "The djinn."

That was the term. She'd heard of them, but only in stories. She never believed in their existence. They were purported to be every bit as clever as a street rat. "Yes, the djinn."

"I do not broker deals. That is not the curse I was given."

"What do you want with me, if you will not allow me to strike a deal?"

"I am tied to the lamp that you possess. It is my duty to grant you three wishes—and nothing more—before you must relinquish the lamp to my next master."

Yuffie stepped forward boldly, thrusting her chin out. "What is the catch? What must I sacrifice?"

He shook his head. "The sacrifice is my own." He appeared for a moment as if he wanted to reach out and touch her, but he simply closed his eyes and did nothing. "To live this curse for a hundred years, with neither food nor drink, to be witness to the gravest torture: happiness that I can grant to anyone but myself."

"And you are not lying to me?" she demanded, moving forward until she was face to face with him.

"I cannot lie to my master."

Yuffie felt a smile dance across her lips. "And you will grant me anything?"

"Yes." His tormented gaze struck the smile from her face.

Yuffie hesitantly stroked the djinn's face. He did not protest. But, thought Yuffie, perhaps he could not. She had been intoxicated by the implications, but she was no monster. She could see that he had suffered. What gifts had he been forced to bestow? "How many years?" she whispered.

"Thirty."

Yuffie felt her breath catch. Thirty years of imprisonment! She backed away. The temptation was too great. She wanted wealth, she wanted her former kingdom restored from the ruin—but, secretly, above all, she wanted happiness for herself. This djinn was offering her all three, in three wishes. She only had to make the command. How many before her had asked for the same selfish things? "What did you do to receive this curse?"

"I loved a woman."

Yuffie watched him, lips thin and eyes full of perplexity. "Was it worth this life, djinn?"

"Yes."

Yuffie had often yearned, in her younger, more wishful years, a love such as his—one so pure and potent. But it was foolish. It was worthless to her now. The restoration of her country was paramount. She was a lost princess to a lost empire.

"Is it love you seek? Wealth? Power?" he asked. "I have heard them all. You will not surprise me, young one. People have proven themselves time and time again to be predictable."

Yuffie averted her eyes from his powerful gaze. "You have seen through me, djinn. Fill the coffers of my fallen kingdom. Bring prosperity to my homeland."

"It shall be done," he spoke. "What is your second wish?"

Yuffie's eyes flicked back to meet his. They were filled with resignation, disillusionment, and a stroke of sadness. She already knew her second wish. "You have already seen through my first wish, djinn. Can you not see my second?"

"Power?" he murmured.

Yuffie pressed her lips together. "I will not say, until I have seen my palace rise from the ashes."

"It is only a matter of time."

Yuffie went to the window, watching as the night turned to day. "And for my third wish? Do you already know this, too, djinn?"

"Yes."

Without turning to look at him, she asked, "What do you think it is?"

"Happiness."

Yuffie bowed her head. He was right. Her fist clenched at her side. She wanted happiness. She wanted out of this horrid life, away from the embezzlement, the plundering, the lies. She wanted her mother back, her father's approving smile—she wanted someone to look at her as if she were the sun. She wanted happiness so badly that she felt as though she would be torn apart if she could not have it.

"Surprise," she said playfully, turning to grace him with a deceitful smile. "You got me again." He seemed mystified by her smile, as if he wasn't quite sure he could be fooled by it. "As you said, people are predictable."

But he was wrong. She wanted happiness with all her heart and soul, but she would not wish for it.

She would wish for his freedom, when at last her final request was to be queued.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **Can you blame a girl for thinking "Aladdin" when it came to this theme? Considering the original Aladdin was Chinese, I took my liberties for creating a (slightly) more appropriate backdrop for the story (read: Taklamakan Desert). Winter break is finally, _finally_ here. Here's hoping that after I convalesce some more, that I'll get right back on track, writing-wise.

Feedback very much appreciated. Thank you for reading.


	7. scholar

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _FFVII_.

**_Nepenthe._**

* * *

><p><em>theme o19. scholar<em>

* * *

><p>Yuffie's jaw tightened, teeth gnashing viciously against each other, as she levered antiseptic over her wounds. Drops of blood continued to well up from the gashes, dripping to the floor where it joined puddles of careless antiseptic. She ripped clean strips of cloth from the remains of an old Midgar University t-shirt. As she tried her best to wrap it around her upper left arm, she felt, rather than saw, her right-armed wounds reopen. "Shit," she uttered quietly. Red began to blossom in small patterns along the arm. She ignored it and continued to tend to her left. She was unspeakably grateful for her ambidexterity—and certainly not for the first time these past few nightmarish weeks.<p>

A soft click signaled the opening of one of the doors on the bottom floor. "_Really_?" she hissed. Today was really not her day. Yuffie snatched the handgun from the ground, aimed it at the far door and prepared to fire.

* * *

><p>Bang!<p>

_Yuffie jumped in her seat, eyes snapping back to the chalkboard for the first time since her attention had wandered fifteen minutes prior. Several of the students in the front rows of the lecture hall winced. _

"_My apologies," began Professor Valentine, stabilizing the sliding chalkboard with his hand to prevent triggering another collision with the metal slat at the bottom. "Technology these days," he commented gruffly, with a shake of his head. He proceeded to erase a schematic on prion reproduction. Yuffie's eyes jumped to her notebook, which sat painfully bare on the desk in front of her. "Remember; these will be on the exam," warned the professor. _

_Just her luck. Yuffie wanted to smack her head against the desk, repeatedly. What on earth convinced her that taking a molecular engineering class was a good idea? Sure, she had signed up under various recommendations, and it did fulfill one of her elective requirements, but why hadn't she signed up for something else—something engaging, or easy, or even remotely useful? Before she could ruminate further, one of the side doors opened. In loped a campus security guard, his cap pulled low over his head. Murmurings erupted through the rows. Yuffie stared raptly at the newcomer. Lecture wasn't even close to ending yet. Was something going on outside? Was one of the students in trouble? The professor turned, both surprised and concerned by the man's arrival. The professor addressed the guard in low tones, too low for the auditorium to hear. It looked as if he was asking what the problem was. The guard seemed to struggle to clear the last few steps to the professor, his posture sagging significantly, movements somewhat erratic. _

_Yuffie realized it a moment too late. Something was wrong. She shot up from the seat, notebook and writing instruments scattering onto the floor. The professor leaned forward to catch the man's response, but when he was within an arm's length of the guard, his features mutated into shock, then horror. _

_It all happened too quickly to comprehend. Blood splattered across the front rows. Screams of fright filled the room. Everywhere, students jumped out of their seats to see what was going on. But Yuffie had already gotten a glimpse—that was all she needed. She tore out of the auditorium like a bat from hell. Yuffie didn't stop running until her lungs were on fire, didn't stop until her head throbbed so hard from lack of oxygen that it crowded out the last image she had seen. _

_The security guard wasn't human. _

_Maybe it once was. But, in that room, it wasn't. She remembered the ghoulish green color she had mistaken for illness, the mottled, yellow eyes, and the rotting flesh along its mouth. _

_She remembered the way the professor crumpled where he stood, drenched in his own blood, writhing, eyes rolling to the back of his head. She remembered watching Professor Grimoire Valentine die before her very eyes._

_She had never been more terrified in her life._

* * *

><p>The door to the room creaked open. Yuffie's finger tensed over the trigger. She would not be foolish enough to waste bullets until they were absolutely necessary. She'd already fired three last week. She only had seven left. The doorway inched open further, and Yuffie had to fight every impulse in her body telling her <em>now<em>.

The door hinge whined without warning. Yuffie flinched, firing involuntarily. The bullet grazed the edge of the door and lodged itself into the wallpaper. The door swung open fully before she could ready herself for another shot. Her hands began to shake. This was the end. She'd survived for three weeks, but they had finally found her. They were going to kill her, turn her into one of them.

But hell if she wasn't going down without a fight.

"Don't shoot." A human voice. Yuffie felt herself relax instantly. The figure stepped forward from behind the door, arms raised in surrender.

Yuffie inhaled sharply, backing against the wall. "Professor _Valentine_?" The apparition stared at her sharply in alarm. He possessed the same crimson eyes, the same wayward black hair, and the same handsome angled features. "But—it can't be. I—I saw you—" Yuffie stopped herself abruptly, realizing her error. He certainly resembled the late professor, but he clearly wasn't. He was much younger, for one thing. He was also wearing a black suit, which looked rather worse for wear, but otherwise impeccably fitted. Her professor preferred brown tweed, appallingly enough.

"You know my father?"

Yuffie's voice died in her throat. "Knew," she wanted to say, but didn't. "I was taking a class of his, before all _this_ happened." She peered over his shoulder, her senses still on high alert. "Did any of them follow you?"

He shook his head. "And you? Is this area secure?"

"As it can be."

"You're hurt," he remarked candidly.

"They're minor," she muttered. "Got caught in a scuffle at Midgar Mart a few hours ago. You know, in times like these, desperate people can be just as dangerous as the zombies."

His eyes surveyed the room, which she had transformed into some sort of bunker. Tins of canned food were stacked inside an open duffel bag, which contained a pile of clothes, water bottles, knives, and a small portable first aid kit: an arrangement that made for an easy escape. The bed frame had been pushed vertically against the wall next to the door, in case she needed to bar it from entry or exit. The mattress and bedding sat in a corner on the floor, low so that the creatures would not catch a glimpse of her through the window if they were to wander by. She had the curtains half-closed, so as to conceal most of the room, but not fully closed as to arouse suspicion that this house was inhabited by one of the living. Computer wires ran across the length of the floor, some torn and restrung into intricate masses, before they hooked into a desktop that looked to be about at least a decade old. Red blips and columns of code flickered on the screen. He was impressed by her level of aptitude in the face of this catastrophe. He hadn't imagined a simple civilian girl could be quite this resourceful and well-stocked in a matter of weeks. "Where did you find the gun?"

"I broke into a gun shop a while back. It hadn't been easy getting around without protection," she paused, "and after a while, I realized I was going to need it." She shifted, just enough for him to catch flashes beneath her lopsided, green windbreaker. An assortment of knives had been affixed to the inner lining of her jacket. She eyed his empty gun holster. "Who are you?"

"Vincent Valentine. I work for the Department of Administrative Research."

Yuffie narrowed her eyes suspiciously at his response, despite the fact that the name had been designed not to incite scrutiny. "So, you're a Turk." It was not a question.

Vincent showed no outward signs of discomposure, but his terse response betrayed his disconcertion with her knowledge of the true clandestine nature of his division. "I'm afraid the term is unfamiliar with me."

Yuffie didn't bother to roll her eyes at him. "I wasn't born yesterday. I know all about the 'Department,'" she said, and then pointedly, "and I know you're a Turk. I'm the best amateur hacker west of Kalm. In fact, you may have heard of me. I've been in and out of your guys' sad firewalls more than enough times to leave a mark. The White Rose?"

Vincent was loath to admit it, but he had heard of the White Rose. It was a water-cooler topic. Rumor had it that upstairs considered putting more effort into tracking and acquiring her talents for their own use. "I was not aware the White Rose was a schoolchild."

"Hey! How old do you think I am?" she protested indignantly.

"Not nearly old enough to drink, I surmise."

"Well, you got that one right," she conceded, deflating belligerently, "but I'm not a kid, Mr. _Turk._"

"It's Vincent," he corrected her.

"Right, _Vinnie_," she retorted snidely. "What happened to your firearm?"

"It was stolen from me yesterday. In the chaos, I was unable to find a replacement before a swarm appeared."

"You've been sneaking around Midgar unarmed?" she blurted incredulously. "Are you looking to get your brains eaten?" Most of the civilians had evacuated Midgar for safer cities; the few that stayed weren't anxious enough to try their luck with fleeing this late in the game. They were more likely to get caught than make it out alive. Yuffie had made it out as far as the suburbs before the highways were locked down. According to recent government communications, rescue efforts to Midgar had been halted in the face of "unanticipated difficulties," meaning most of the people in the bustling university town were left to fend for themselves.

"I have been able to evade them, for the most part. I have been slowly making my way toward the center of the city, to Midgar University."

"What for?" asked Yuffie, before her brain caught up with her mouth and she snapped her jaw shut.

"To find my father. I haven't had any success in contacting him these past few weeks. The Department believes he has been working on some research that may allow us to find a breakthrough cure, for the infection." Yuffie felt her throat close up. She couldn't find it in herself to tell him that his father was either dead, or one of _them._ "You said you were taking a class of his?" he prompted.

Yuffie returned her eyes to the computer screen, where she had been monitoring and intercepting certain government transmissions. "Yeah, a molecular engineering course."

"Your major?"

"No," she pretended to be captivated by a tiny lapse in her code, rapidly typing on the old keyboard. "Computer engineering." She glanced at him, eyes flicking back nervously to the screen. "I—I haven't seen him since the school shut down, just so you know."

He nodded slowly, watching her pull up a screen that displayed the rough draft of a press release to be given in Kalm tomorrow. It made sense that the White Rose, if she were a student, would be taking computer engineering at one of country's most prestigious universities. Yuffie scanned the draft distractedly. "How did a university student like you acquire basic survival training?" Vincent queried.

He noted a small tint of color budding on her cheeks. "Lots of RPGs." She snuck a side-long glance at him. "What? So, I'm a bit of a geek, too, okay?"

For the first time in nearly a month, Vincent felt a smile tug on his lips. He would have to see to it that Verdot was made aware of her creativity—if he survived the ordeal. "Do you have a map of the city?"

"Way ahead of you, Vinnie." She clicked a tab on the side and pointed to the blue point on the digital topographical map, overlaid with major streets and establishments. "That's where we are, on the corner of Seventh and Heaven Street. See these red blips? Those indicate swarm concentration levels." She frowned. "If you're looking to go deeper, I wouldn't recommend it, especially not today. You'd have to cut across at least four, maybe five, groups." Vincent stared at the map, but didn't seem to take her advice. His fingers brushed against the empty holster. "They'll move tomorrow. I've been tracking their movements for a while. It's roughly predictable. I can tell you that you'll have a way better chance of making it tomorrow morning." She looked at him earnestly, pleadingly. "Don't die on me," her gaze commanded.

He sat against the wall by the mattress and sighed. "I don't suppose you have any provisions you could spare?"

She brightened considerably. "Dinner for two? Not a problem!" She rummaged through a crate in the corner and produced two compact metal cans, tossing one at him.

Vincent caught it deftly and had to restrain yet another impulse to smile. Known as "canned heat," these cans contained fuel made from denatured and jellied alcohol, designed to burn directly from the can. He was no stranger to it. They were indispensable on cover operations away from civilization. They were lightweight, fit in the palm of one's hand, and produced fires that did not give one's location away as ostensibly as a camp fire. "Where did you find these?"

"Snitched them from the chem lab at school. I think they were planning to use them on to cook marshmallows. Let's just say I think they're going to a nobler cause right now." She rolled out some bruised and slightly wilted onions and potatoes. "Sorry, I already ate all the meat. I've been eating kebabs for who knows how long now." She jerked her thumb to the tower of canned food in the duffel bag. "I'm not going through the canned stuff until I get desperate." The way she said it implied she hoped she never would.

By the time they finished their meager portions, Vincent was parched. He eyed the swing-top bottles against the wall, but before he could ask, Yuffie leapt to his side, shaking her head vehemently. "Crap! No! Those aren't for drinking!" She took one gingerly, and, holding it up to the fading afternoon light, showed him the strange mixture that was in it. "They're incendiary devices. Zombies don't like fire, right? So, I made these in case of emergency."

"Molotov cocktails."

"Yep, exactly right," she chirped. "You can have one if you want."

Though neither of them would care to admit it out loud, he knew they were both abundantly grateful for each others company. Still, her generosity was beyond what he expected. She offered him not only food, but weapons. Anything that he accepted would only lessen her supplies. It was clear that she had suffered a great deal to reach this point. "Thank you, but I will be fine," he assured her. Her forehead dipped in concern, but she didn't argue. She knew it as much as he did, then.

She glanced at the darkening sky. "We should get some sleep. They don't do much at night—and you'll probably want to get a move on before dawn." Yuffie gestured to the mattress. "We can share."

"No, you rest. I will take first watch."

She blinked at him. "Wow, you're the real deal, huh, Vinnie?" She smiled, inwardly glad to have a professional on her side. She plopped onto the mattress with an edgy energy. She hated going to sleep. The first few nights had been torture. Every second she felt like an eternity. It had taken days of sleep deprivation until she finally blacked out and awoke, several hours later in a panic, feeling slightly better. She knew they didn't do much at night, and they were out of range of the closest swarm. This time, she even had a bona fide bodyguard, but Yuffie wasn't to be lulled into complacency that easily. Finally, she tossed her gun at him. He caught it, fingers molding around it as if he'd held one all his life. She knew, then, that it was probably safer in his hands than hers. "Still," she announced, flopping onto the bed, pulling the sheets around her, "I'd feel better if you had it. I'm really no good with guns."

His posture was more relaxed now, more natural. Yuffie turned to face him, tucking the pillow beneath her head. She liked to think she made the right choice.

"But—"

"Oh, don't worry about me, Vinnie!" She smiled, glad the last image before she closed her eyes was him—not an empty room, not red blips blossoming all over her computer screen. "I think I'm better off using knives." With that, she drifted off.

* * *

><p>"Yuffie." Urgently. Yuffie bolted upright, hand already sliding a knife from the fold of her jacket. Vincent's vivid red eyes stared at her like a beacon from the opposite end of the room. It was still night. "They're coming."<p>

Yuffie sat frozen for one, sickening moment as she processed his words. _They_ were coming. She jerked her attention to the computer screen. A red blot was converging dangerously with the stationary blue points. She counted the streets—one, two, three—only three streets away! She yanked the duffel from the ground, pulled it over her shoulder, and stripped the wires from her computer in one fell swoop. She didn't want them to know what she'd been doing here, but she didn't want to destroy what she had built in case she ever came back. Only she would be able to hook up the lines correctly. She strapped the bottles of Molotov cocktails about her with a makeshift sling. "I'm ready," she said quietly, willing the terror out of her voice.

He motioned to the door. If they left now, they stood a better chance of escaping undetected. She gulped down a thick knot of spit. He placed a hand on her shoulder, his eyes steadying her in the sea of dread.

"If we get separated—"

"We won't," he said.

"Because you'll know how to find me, right?" she mustered, sounding braver than she felt.

"I'll just look for the fireworks."

Yuffie found herself laughing despite the grimness of the situation. She placed a thumb on the stopper of a bottle. "Just look for the lights, Vinnie."

"Ready?"

"As I'll ever be."

They needed no other words. Together, they plunged into the darkness.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** So. Really no explanation for what I just put you through. Happy holidays. Also, I have a tumblr now. Be my pal there, and I will love you forever.

_pineapplestraw(dot)tumblr(dot)com_

Thank you for reading! Feedback greatly appreciated.


	8. hunter

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _FFVII_.

**_Nepenthe._**

* * *

><p><em>theme o12. hunter<em>

* * *

><p><em>Junon Tavern, midnight. <em>

"I have a proposition for you."

Yuffie quietly looked up from her pewter stein. The ripples in the gin settled as she set it against the tavern counter. She spared the speaker a clinical once-over, but not much more. He was tall, in the way that all men were taller than her, his features obscured by the long, traveler's cloak he wore. He stood with a strange hunch that reminded her of a vulture. It only took one look to classify him. The tell-tale glimmer of spectacles beneath the hood, the superior quality of his attire: he reeked of wealth. Yuffie hid her smirk in a liberal swill of gin. Her interest was piqued. Wiping the smear of liquor on her upper lip, she said, "This better be good."

"Oh, I will most certainly make this worth your while."

She heard his lips curl into a sinister, little grin. Yuffie knew how to kill a man nineteen different ways, but there was something about _hearing_ him _grin_ that put her on edge. Just a bit. She gestured crudely to the empty stool beside her, flagging down the bartender for another round. When he came around with another full tankard, she jabbed a finger at her mysterious companion. "That'll be on his tab." She turned her head slightly, a quirk to her lips. "You don't mind, do you?"

"No, not at all," he replied tightly.

"I didn't think so," she mused. "So, what can I do for you?"

"I've heard a great deal about you, Huntress. Raised in the wilderness; a skilled tracker, a practiced thief, and an able assassin. You've come highly recommended."

"Is that so? Curses," Yuffie remarked with a spoonful of derision, "for I've heard absolutely nothing about you."

He seemed to take her rudeness in stride. Or else, he was smarter than she gave him credit for. Not many failed to divulge their identities after such subtle provocation. "My character is nothing you should concern yourself with, I assure you. If I'm not mistaken, you live by a single slogan. 'Money is king,' is that right?" He produced a wad of crisp, folded bills. To her practiced eye, it looked as if they had been freshly printed.

"You've got that right," said Yuffie, keeping her expression neutral. It was a considerable sum. She'd never been offered quite so much for a job before—not even the big hits. Her eyes narrowed suspiciously as she finished counting the bills—all genuine, not a single counterfeit bill. "You should know I don't do political turmoil." Yuffie was no fool. Getting involved with imperial espionage or royal hits was practically asking for a death sentence.

"No, it's nothing like that," he crooned smoothly. "I'm interested, you see, in the tracking aspects of your impressive repertoire." Yuffie pocketed the roll of money with a noncommittal grunt, which he interpreted as a sign of agreement. He laid a sheet of parchment between them, painted in coarse strokes into the likeness of a handsome, if not hauntingly handsome, man.

"Who am I looking for?" she asked, trailing a nail over the image's piercing gaze.

"Vincent Valentine is his name, an immoral degenerate from the Dukedom of Nibelheim." He paused, as if assessing her opinion on his new information. She nodded apathetically. If he was expecting sudden aversion because of the mere mention of a region, then he was sorely misinformed. She harbored no loyalties; she went wherever the job took her. Other than several thrilling thefts within its borders, she hardly knew anything about Nibelheim. Seemingly pleased by her reaction—or lack thereof—he continued. "I would like you to find him, and bring him to me." Yuffie scratched her chin. The task seemed simple enough. "To justice," he added unconvincingly.

"What did he do?" she quipped. "Steal your girlfriend?"

"He killed my wife, in cold blood," was his unperturbed rejoinder, "and stole away into the night with several heirlooms of mine. I would like to see them returned."

Yuffie scrunched up her lips in contemplation. She was dealing with another killer? That was going to make things trickier, but not impossible—not with the kind of money she'd just gotten.

"Will this be a problem?"

Yuffie smiled in reply. "Where do I deliver?"

* * *

><p>This Vincent Valentine sure knew how to hide, thought Yuffie, as she yanked her left boot out of the swamp, shaking it out of disgust. Her sleuthing had taken her out of the bar in Junon, to another in the slums of Midgar. The barmaid there vaguely recalled serving a man fitting his description months ago, commenting that she only remembered because of how "lost" he seemed. The deliveryman beside her, a man of few words, corroborated her account, pointing her west to Gongaga. Gongaga was a dead end.<p>

For days, she trekked through the Ancient Forest, swatting away clusters of annoying forest pixies and enduring the slanderous whispers of unseen dryads. In Cosmo Canyon, she had caught wind of his name, but the Elder Wolves, a rare and ancient breed of crimson-furred beasts, refused to divulge more. Entreating them further yielded nothing, only that she should give up her quest, for he only wished to be alone. She would have returned east for more clues, but that night as she contemplated her next move, she spotted one of the Elder Wolves slink out of the nest. The timing was too close to be a coincidence. Yuffie snuck after him, but he was a creature of the wild, and though she was no stranger to the wilderness, she was nothing compared to him; within hours, she had lost him beneath the bleak cover of nightfall.

But it was enough. She'd gotten a direction, at the very least. She continued her way north, toward Nibelheim. She was close to the border now. Yuffie blew the bangs out of her face impatiently. She hated swamps almost as much as she hated getting attacked by mountain lions—although their pelts did sell handsomely on the black market. Yuffie tried not to feel sour about the gash across her cheek as she shifted the heavy hide across her back. It slowed her down, to be sure, but not by enough for her to abandon it. She'd try doing away with it at the next town stop.

Night was falling. It was dangerous to be trapped in a swamp after dusk. Yuffie was not looking forward to encountering will-o-wisps—or, Heaven forbid, cantankerous dwarves made all the more cross by being awoken during their evening slumber. Those sick creatures liked to cast spells for the sheer fun of it. Careful not to stray too far from the border, Yuffie made her way to a nearby village twinkling over the hill.

Selling her pelt turned out be blessing in disguise. As the dealer examined it for authenticity, her eyes caught on a pocket watch, dangling from the shelf. It would have been unremarkable, except Yuffie knew just what to look for: peculiarities. Men's pocket watches weren't worth much, selling them meant selling whatever copper, silver, or gold it was plated in. This one was plated in gold, and fashioned with impeccable taste. Whoever sold it had been desperate—also, loaded.

"Anything you like?"

"That watch there—let me take a look at it."

"Sentimental or something?" he grunted gruffly, taking it down from its perch and setting it down in front of her.

As she suspected, it wasn't any old pocket watch. It had never seen a dent or tarnish in its entire life. She lifted the chain. The emblem of a three-headed hound glittered in the low light; it was the crest of the House of Nibelheim. Only citizens of Nibelheim had them. And, to her knowledge, she wasn't in Nibelheim just yet.

Yuffie's lips twisted into a triumphant grin. "Not in the slightest."

* * *

><p>She knew he wasn't far. The pocket watch had told her that much. If he was looking to lie low, she knew just the place to search. There was woodland just northeast of the village, dangerous territory to travel through alone. As she combed the grounds, she just hoped she wouldn't find him already dead. After all, she'd been hired to bring him in alive.<p>

Yuffie plucked a single red thread hanging off the bark of a tree, rolling it between her thumb and forefinger. Red was not a good color for camouflage. Yuffie swung her gaze around the vicinity, noting several human-sized footprints next to what appeared to be a large underground burrow. Her eyebrows went sailing up her forehead. Yuffie stood there, silently debating whether or not to follow. It was a dwarf's burrow. Most people were not stupid enough to wander willingly into a dwarf's burrow. But Yuffie had a bounty to follow—and several lethal weapons on her person.

With an inward sigh, she descended into the cavern, knife poised in her hand in case its host decided to greet her with less-than-friendly intentions.

"You're too late, Huntress."

Yuffie halted as her eyes adjusted to the beams of sunlight that spilled in from the cavern's pitted ceiling. A dwarf, stocky with a gnarled and unpleasant face, stood beside a glass coffin. Yuffie kept her expression carefully controlled, but her heart fell at the sight. She was too late. Vincent Valentine was dead. "What's this? Did you kill him for intruding?" she deadpanned.

The dwarf frowned, every winkle in his face making it ten times more disagreeable to look at. "Don't be crass. Dwarves don't kill. People do."

"You were told to stay away. His wish was to be alone."

Yuffie's eyes darted to the far corner of the cavern. An Elder Wolf sat curled beside the coffin, gazing at her with golden eyes. She tried not to feel smug, but she had been right to follow him. "I was just doing my job," she said harmlessly, slipping the knife back into its holster. "So, what? Did he drink hemlock?"

"He merely sleeps in a death-like trance, to escape mercenary hands such as yours," said the Elder Wolf.

She couldn't fault him for that. If she were ever the target of a widespread manhunt, she would fake her death, too—or put herself in a coma, in his case. It was actually kind of brilliant. No one would think to search a dwarf's burrow, and if they were brash enough to, they'd ultimately be thwarted. "He must have paid you," she told the dwarf, to which said creature grinned, displaying rows of razor-sharp teeth.

"Handsomely."

Yuffie approached the glass coffin, and would have whistled if the situation had been in any way appropriate. The painting did not do him justice. Inky black hair framed an aristocratic face. Alabaster skin contrasted almost poetically with thick, dark lashes—and lips she would think twice before splitting. His crimson coat was tailored perfectly to his frame. He was one fine specimen. She found it a little hard to think he would be a criminal or a killer. He just didn't seem like the type. Killers didn't hole themselves up in the equivalent of eternal oblivion. The guilty did. She pressed a hand on the glass, rather experimentally. Neither creature attempted to stop her. "You cast a spell on him."

"Yes," answered the Elder Wolf.

"No loop-holes in this one?" Yuffie had encountered spells before. There was always something to exploit.

"Only the traditional one, if you care to try it," gibed the dwarf.

"You dwarves are such romantics," scoffed Yuffie, popping open the lid of the coffin. She fought against the drowsy sensation that began to crawl up her eyelids.

"It won't work," chattered the dwarf, nearly dancing in his mockery. The Elder Wolf watched her, saying nothing. It was clear neither of them thought it would work. Honestly, Yuffie didn't think it would either, but she had to give it a shot. Yuffie was nothing if not stubborn. Most contracts didn't include trying to resuscitate a mark through true love's kiss, though. She was definitely asking for a bonus if this worked. She yanked him up by the collar and smashed her lips to his. Suddenly, Yuffie was filled with the strangest sensation of simultaneously falling and being pulled up from the ocean, like déjà vu, only stronger.

Vincent's eyelids flared open, revealing eyes the color of blood rubies. If she thought the rest of him was beautiful, it was nothing compared to his eyes. She didn't think to release him from the lip-lock until his eyebrows—raised first in shock then lowered in hostility—drew her notice. She dropped him unceremoniously. Vincent's head fell back onto the coffin with a muted thud.

She was _not_ expecting that to work.

"That wasn't supposed to work!" shrieked the dwarf, positively stomping now in his tantrum.

The Elder Wolf scrutinized her. "How curious."

Yuffie quickly regained her sensibilities. "Good, you're awake," she piped. "Now, you're coming with me." She spun her dagger out with deceptive grace. "I suppose your helpers can't stop me now that I've broken the spell fair and square." As she anticipated, neither creature made a move to stop her.

Vincent gazed her coolly. He clearly considered her a threat, which was good, then. She was one. "You said this would work," said Vincent, his voice tantalizingly low and deep—all velvet and unintentional seduction, mused Yuffie.

"It did work," said the Elder Wolf, "for many months."

Vincent's gaze slowly returned to her, silently bewildered.

"What can I say? Magic lips."

He did not seem pleased by her answer. She didn't have a better one, and neither, it appeared, did he. "Did he send you?"

"Yes, he did." She placed the dagger against his skin. "Now, I wouldn't want to slice open this pretty little neck of yours, but I will if you don't cooperate. You're going to show me where you hid those heirlooms and then you're going to come with me back to Shinra Manor to face 'justice.'"

His face darkened. "You're making a mistake."

"No, I'm making _money_."

* * *

><p>Yuffie cheerfully collected the last relic in the pouch she kept by her waist. Most of the "heirlooms" she'd been tasked to find were actually papers, strange alchemical papers. The only thing that seemed out of place was the string of pearls, which Vincent had kept, apparently, in his breast pocket, as if it had meant a great deal to him. She snatched it away and dropped it in with the bundle of papers.<p>

She had his hands bound behind his back, peppering him with threats if he even thought of escaping. Not very many people enjoyed the slow torture of a knife to the stomach. His expression was cold enough to freeze her shadow to the ground. She took his animosity in stride. Not many people would be companionable when being led to the executioner's table. "What did he tell you?"

Speaking to prisoners only ended up making her job harder, but she relented. "That you murdered his wife and ran away."

"I did no such thing. He's the murderer. I could not save her. I was a coward."

Yuffie was taken aback by the anguish in his voice, but she was not to be roused by it. "Not my problem," she replied harshly.

"He is a scoundrel," Vincent said, his tone resigned as if he did not expect her to listen. "He was jealous of my engagement with the late Countess Crescent. He killed her," his voice wavered like fragments in a snowdrift, "and framed me to seize control of my estate."

"Your 'estate,'" echoed Yuffie dubiously.

A flash of understanding appeared in his eyes. "He did not tell you who I was."

"He told me." Yuffie didn't like being contradicted. "You're Vincent Valentine, scumbag extraordinaire." She was pretty sure he had used a different phrase, but the effect was the same.

He pierced her with a smoldering look; honestly, he had no idea how attractive it was. "Congratulations, you've caught Lord Valentine, the Duke of Nibelheim."

Yuffie stopped in her tracks, lips parting in speechlessness. When she had finally regained control of her vocal cords, she said falteringly, "The Duke of Nibelheim?" No, he couldn't possibly be the reigning sovereign of Nibelheim. "You're lying," she hissed. Yuffie didn't like being tricked. "You'll keep your mouth shut or I'll cut out your tongue."

"He lied to you," was Vincent's last comment.

* * *

><p>Shinra Manor was eerily deserted for a domain of such prestige. Yuffie was led into the inner chambers by a beady-eyed butler with a crooked nose. Vincent trailed unwillingly behind her.<p>

"So, you've come."

She recognized his voice from the tavern. Absent of his cloak, Yuffie found him much less tolerable to look at. Her suppositions had been right. He walked with an odd hunch, frighteningly keen eyes peering from behind silver spectacles. His raven-black hair was lined with gray, oiled back with austere precision. Vincent glowered at him murderously.

"I'll be wanting the rest of that money you promised."

"Yes, of course. My servants will bring it to you at the door," he assured her. "Now, those heirlooms."

Yuffie tossed the bag to him. He clutched at it like a rapacious beast. He pulled from the bag the string of pearls, his eyes filled with a disturbing mixture of lust and grief.

"Do not touch her things, Hojo," seethed Vincent. "You insult her memory."

That name sounded familiar. Yuffie's eyes narrowed as she watched Hojo clench the pearls in his hand, the force of his grip nearly snapping them apart.

"You are my captive now. You should do well to watch your tongue," said Hojo dangerously.

It came to her then. Hojo was the Earl of the North, infamous for his interest in the dark arts, fond of torturing trespassers before he set them free, without a whit of knowledge as to who they were. His methods were gruesome, but Yuffie had never gotten involved in politics and she promised herself she never would. As if aware of his increasing volatility, he ordered her to leave. Yuffie stood motionless for a moment, watching Vincent's eyes lower to the floor in defeat. This was not her fight, she reminded herself. Nevertheless, before she could help herself, she blurted, "What will you do with him?"

Hojo grinned, chilling her to the bone. Yuffie didn't fear many, but he certainly made the list. Madmen were always a force to be reckoned with. They were unpredictable, often sadistic, and horribly inventive in manners of cruelty. "What I do with him is nothing you should concern yourself with, Huntress. You have fulfilled your end of the bargain. You will be rewarded handsomely. You are dismissed," he said with a note of finality.

Yuffie was used to a feeling of self-satisfaction after a mission well-done. Only, this time, she left with a bitter taste in her mouth. The doors closed behind her with a resounding groan, shutting Vincent inside with that shadow of a man. At the end of the hall, the same hawkish butler greeted her with a sack of her earnings, and then some. Yuffie found herself far from pleased, but appeased, she strode on toward the front entrance. "I can find my own way out," she stated sharply when it appeared he would accompany her. The butler turned his nose at her and remained in the hall.

At the front door, as she turned the knob, something that resembled a slip of paper caught her eye. No one could blame her for her curiosity. She snitched the crumpled scrap from the corner where it had been dumped and smoothed it out. It was an old miniature portrait, done with masterful artisanship. A man in full Duke regalia stood tall behind a gilded chair, where an arrestingly attractive woman sat, her hands folded neatly in her lap. Matching engagement rings adorned their respective left hands. What struck her most, however, was the man. It was Vincent Valentine.

Yuffie felt her blood run to ice. She really had caught the Duke of Nibelheim. Yuffie turned half-facing the hall through which she came, her normally bright cheeks going pale. She was helping an insurrection. The butler threw a condescending look at her from his post. Biting her lip, Yuffie allowed herself a brief moment to regret what she was about to do. In the next moment, she sprinted down the hall. The butler opened his mouth to give a cry, but fell noiselessly to the floor seconds later, a blade caught in his throat. Good riddance.

Yuffie kicked down the doors. The sight that greeted her was revolting. Hojo had Vincent's skull pinned beneath his boot, pressed into the carpet. Blood oozed into the rich woven rug from a wound she couldn't see. She launched her throwing stars at the hapless bastard, knocking him away from Vincent's prone form and securing his arms to the wall.

"What are you doing?" Hojo screeched, his eyes blazing with lunacy.

Yuffie withdrew her favorite doubled-edged sword and pressed the tip of against the center of his throat, her mouth set in a grim, disgusted line. "Deal's off, Hojo. I told you I don't do royal hits."

"You wouldn't dare—"

"No one," she said, cocking her head just enough to establish the angle of her next slash, "lies to me."

* * *

><p><em>Shinra Manor, midnight. One year later.<em>

"Remember that time I saved your life?" pondered Yuffie aloud, a smirk in her voice.

Vincent returned her conceit with a critical look. "Remember that time you put my life in peril?"

Yuffie's nimble fingers danced along the scar on his forehead. "I don't know, do I? Selective memory."

Vincent caught her hand, the harsh lines of his face softening. "Do you remember," he leaned forward, a fond and treacherously titillating curve on his lips, "this?"

Yuffie licked her lips mischievously, throwing her arm around him, and pulling him down onto the bed. He kissed her long and deep. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of moaning just yet. Before things got too risqué, she twisted the ring off her finger and flung it with unfailing accuracy onto the bedside table. She didn't want another telltale nick on his perfect skin.

When she broke for air, she smiled. "Oh, _that_," she mustered breathlessly, drawing him in for another. "What can I say? Magic lips."

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** By far, my most favorite piece to write in this entire collection. You can tell by the way it was utterly impossible to keep short. I was even thinking of keeping this as a stand-alone. I based this piece off of _Snow White_, starring Yuffie as the hunter, which turned out to be greatly entertaining. The spunk was all her own. Did anyone catch the reference to the "Greece" theme in all this? I apologize if you don't enjoy this as much as I do, but am shamelessly pleased with how it turned out. I'm going to force myself to shut up now. But really do hope you enjoyed this.

Thank you for reading. Feedback will be positively raved over.


	9. tribe

_**Nepenthe.**_

* * *

><p><em>theme o49. tribe<em>

* * *

><p>Vincent ducked into the yurt, forced to the center of the floor at sword-point. A young woman, head of the tribe, he surmised, glanced up at his untimely arrival. Hair as black as night framed her soft-featured face. Her eyes, however, were sharp and stormy, like the wind that sliced through the craggy Wutain peaks. After a swift, dismissive perusal of his person, her eyes flicked back down to the maps spread upon the table. "What's this, Staniv?" she spoke when she clearly could ignore him no longer.<p>

"An intruder, Princess."

"A traveler," protested Vincent, before a swift prod to the back warned him to remain silent.

She stood from her seat, the fur-lined cloak billowing around like her a shroud. She moved away from the desk and approached him, her interest caught by the accent in his voice. "You're of Wutain descent."

"On my mother's side," he admitted haltingly, for he hadn't anticipated how diminutive their commander would be. After his abduction from Leviathan's Pass, he had expected his confrontation with his abductors' leader would be of a more intimidating nature.

The soldier tossed Vincent's arquebus into the air. "He was armed, Princess."

The princess caught it effortlessly, and examined it with a pensive look. She suddenly pressed the barrel to his chest. "Tell me, traveler, what did you intend to do with this weapon?"

He felt his heart drumming against his ribcage, frantic against the touch of mortality. "It is for protection," said Vincent, adding after some consideration, "Princess."

Her eyes narrowed, not out of suspicion, but out of curiosity. She brought a tiny, scar-ridden hand up to his face, trailing her fingers along his cheek. "You do not need this anymore, traveler. You are under my protection now."

"Princess!" exclaimed the soldier.

"Leave us, Staniv. Take this and see to it that it is secured."

The soldier bent forward respectfully, removing himself from the facility only after shooting a glare at the princess's new ward. Vincent allowed his body to relax, and he bowed his head. Dots of snow shook free from his red cloak, falling softly to the animal-skin floor. "Thank you, Princess, for your mercy. If I may have your permission to leave, I promise to trouble your tribe no further."

"You do not have my permission to leave, traveler," she replied, her lips faintly raised in amusement. "What is your name?"

"Vincent," he said, after a moment of shock. "I am not permitted to leave?"

"I have placed you under my protection," she smiled, "Vincent. You will serve me, of course."

Vincent felt his muscles tighten beneath his cloak. He was expected in Nibelheim in three days time. There was someone waiting for him there. "I am indebted to your generosity, Princess, but I must insist—"

Her lips thinned, and he knew he had crossed a line. She took him, gently but firmly, by the chin and drew him closer to her. Her eyes roved across the features of his face. "You may call me Yuffie, Vincent," she whispered magnanimously. Her breath, ghosting lightly over his lips, tasted of power and danger. "But you may not leave."

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Based very loosely off the ethnic Wuhuan (乌桓) tribe. It's been months since I thought about updating any of my collections. And of course, when I finally think to do it, it's at 2 in the morning. This is actually an old piece, mostly written in 2011 and revised as of just now. I think my love affair with Tumblr is puttering out and I miss writing. I'm hoping to do more of it during my downtime. Just need to scavenge around for inspiration. Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoyed! Feedback is, naturally, appreciated. (Oh, and thanks for putting up with my long absence.)


End file.
